


The Adventures of Jean Thirstein and Marco "Captain Canada" Bodt

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, College + High School AU, It's mostly just dudes tho, M/M, Masturbation, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Suburbia, Summer Romance, Vibrators, butt stuff, so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 19:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to Jean, Marco is the best thing his big sister's ever done for him - and also the worst.  Because bringing home the most attractive and good-natured college classmate in the entirety of North America makes for a long, hard, throbbing summer.</p><p>According to Marco, Jean is his best friend's little brother with an edgy haircut and a sharper attitude.  No wonder they don't talk much - Marco's just a home-schooled good boy from Canada whose only friend is the kind of girl his parents warned him about.</p><p>According to the law, their relationship would be just barely legal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally nicknamed Gay Trash Party AU)
> 
> UPDATE: Due to personal issues, I'm disowning this fic. I've never really liked it that much, and I've especially become really uncomfortable with anything implying underage/age gap relationships. So don't contact me about this ever again. I'll leave it up bc, hey, people enjoyed it once. But I personally am super uncomfortable with even the slightest possible taste of anything involving pedophilia.

He knows _exactly_ how it would go.

Like a song you know so well you can feel it in your bones; Jean knows the precise feel of Marco's skin, his hands with his long fingers and close-trimmed nails. Their presence on his body is like coming home as Marco slides his palms up Jean's bare thighs.

They don't have time to go slow today, so Marco palms Jean's cock through his boxers and leans in to sigh into the crook of Jean's neck.

"Feel good?" he asks, in his deep voice and it sends a little ripple of heat down Jean's spine. Yes, of course, because Marco's perfect at this like he's perfect at everything. But he won't say that here.

"You know what would feel better?" Jean taunts, then moans as Marco gently bites Jean's skin and pulls. It's just the barest hint of pain, then the hand rubbing his length through fabric squeezes tighter.

Marco chuckles into the reddened flesh before pressing a kiss on the bite mark. "That?"

"Yeah, just like--"

_"JEAN!"_

A fist, or maybe a foot, slams into Jean's bedroom door and he jumps, the fantasy fizzling out. Marco evaporates into nothing but wishful thinking and modified memory, bu there's still a hand under the waistband of his shorts. "Hurry the fuck up in there, you still have to help get the house cleaned!"

"Shut up, Hitch, it's _your_ fucking friend!" he screams back, the burn of arousal going cold with fury.  This is one thing he doesn't miss about Hitch while she's been gone.

His half-sister's voice is teasing but still obnoxious. "Mama said you had to do it, _Gene_." The door rattles again, then he hears her pad away.

Stupid sisters. Even worse when they're freshmen in college and back on summer break, closet filled with slutty clothes they got to pick out themselves and their stupidly hot friends.

Jean grabs the nearest bottle of lotion and slicks up his hand, now more desperate than ever to just get off before their company arrives. He doesn't have time to build up the fantasy, just fists his dick as fast and as rough as his wrist can take until he comes with a little cut back grunt into the old red sock. Maybe if he can just get one out of his system, he'll actually get through the evening.

Thus finished, he changes into a slightly cleaner shirt and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands before slinking downstairs.

"It’s not even the first time he’s been here," the high school junior gripes as he pads downstairs in bare feet, basketball shorts and the least dirty of his favorite band tees. "Don’t see the point in making everything extra-clean. He won’t even go in the kitchen."

His mother gives him a severe stare, and Jean wilts under that intenze hazel gaze. She looks uncannily like her daughter, plus about thirty pounds and 70 percent more clothing; same sandy-blonde wavy hair, same dainty nose and wide mouth. Jean missed out on the almost toad-like features, but he has the same unmanagable locks, and he whines when his mother whips out a comb.

"No, god no, Mom, anything but that," he pleads as Mrs. Kirstein strides towards him, the tool a guillotine to his sweat-spiked undercut and any chance he has of so much as camping on the outskirts of Coolsville.

"When was the last time you even showered?"

"This morning, mom, it’s just fu—  _flipping_  June!” Jean backs away from his mother and into someone who smells like hairspray and artificial vanilla - then arms wrap around his neck and he squawks in distress.  Frying pan into the fire, apparently; his big sister has him like a hawk with a rabbit and seems just as pleased.

"Jean," Hitch coos, "I need you to go hook up your Playstation for us, okay? I rented a couple Blu-Rays and totally forgot we don’t have a player."

Neon blue nails scratch his stomach playfully through his shirt, then she releases him and pushes him towards the living room. Well, at least this means he doesn’t have to get his hair brushed by someone whose fashion sense is stuck firmly in the 80s.

He’s on his knees behind the TV, trying to remember which tri-colored sockets to plug the cords into when the doorbell rings. And like Pavlov’s fucking dog, that innocuous little chime is enough to make Jean’s pulse spike and palms sweat.

Life is  _so_  not fair.

Jean continues to mess around behind the TV as he hears his sister run to the door, swinging it open and greeting her friend with a sing-songy greeting and a hug that probably crushes her fucking boobs against their guest’s chest. Then he hears his mother call from the kitchen, and finally that sweet, soft laughter of Marco ‘Half-Sister’s Really Hot Friend’ Bodt.

"Thanks so much for having me, Mrs. Kirstein," and he hears the rustle of a grocery bag. "I hope you don’t mind, but I picked up some ice cream on the way here. They were having a sale, and Hitch mentioned you’d never tried Haagen-Daz."

Ah, sweet Lord above, he  _would_  bring ice cream; and now all Jean can think about is watching him eat it, spoonful by spoonful, maybe dripping from a cone to splash down his chest in little milky white spatters. And Jean would lean over to lick it off his bare, freckled skin, holding eye contact the whole time as he would drag the flat of his tongue up—

Oh,  _fuck_ , and he barely came twenty minutes ago!

Jean growls, finishes plugging the PS3 into the back of their modest little flatscreen, and stands just in time to catch Marco’s eye. He manages not to flush, but he can’t quite return Marco’s impulsive, flashed smile. He’s just a little too perfect to look at directly - like the sun, all warm and beaming and billions of miles away. It makes Jean sick, but it also makes him voraciously thirsty and more desperate to suck a dick then he’s ever been in his life.

It’s straight up unfair how Hitch, of all of the world’s most unpleasant women, to land such an absolute sweetheart. Dark brown eyes, black hair, a generous smattering of freckles on his already-tanned skin, Canadian manners with a habit of muttering French under his breath; he is devastating, beautiful, and Jean is—

— totally staring, oh geez.

"Hi, Jean," Marco reminds the blond of his presence, and though his face is relaxing his eyes still sparkle happily. No, really, they’re sparkling and it’s not goddamn fair for Jean to have to breathe the same air as this guy.

He blushes now, fixes his eyes on the carpet and flees to the nearest exit, which just happens to be the doorway Marco is standing in. Jean pulls in his shoulders and crab-walks around the tall college student, mutters a “‘scuse me” and practically sprints back upstairs to hide until dinner.

 

* * *

 

Marco’s going to Stohess University, same as Jean’s sister; he’s a year ahead of her in college and staying on campus to work over the summer rather than move back home to some little no-name place in Canada. But all this really translates to is that, since Hitch first brought Marco home for Thanksgiving Break, Marco’s been somewhat accepted as part of the family and has driven to their house already three times over the summer.

And that just really, really means that Jean’s been taunted this hot slice of Canadian Bacon for too long and yet no where near long enough.

He’s come to terms with his sexuality years ago, and it’s not really ever been a Big Deal. A few of his friends know, but so long as he doesn’t look too long at anyone in the locker rooms at school no one gives a shit. Besides, no one from around here had ever really been his type; the closest one might of been Bertholdt, a tall quiet guy with long legs that Jean had, once or twice, contemplated wrapping around his waist. But Jean barely speaks to the guy even to this day, so that feeling fizzled out like a pop bottle left open overnight.

But Marco is something else; Marco is new and interesting, is sweet and tall and attractive and has the best goddamn ass Jean’s ever seen. It was such a shame that Marco was probably gonna be graduating before Jean even made it to college, because then he’d move back home and have like fifteen perfect children. Canadian Steve Rodgers, more like. Life was not fair.

The bullet vibrator he’d discreetly bought online is buzzing gently in his ass as Jean jerks off - he shifts his hips, tries to get the little device seated just so to find his prostate again, but he’s woefully inexperienced at this. It feels good, or it’s supposed to, but it’s just a little shy of the kind of good that will actually take him places. It’s not quite there, but at least he’s not in a hurry. Hitch and his mom are out shopping, Dad’s still at work and Marco’s gonna be here in a couple hours. He has the whole place to himself.

Slicking his hand up again, Jean sets up a slow rhythm as he starts a fresh fantasy; he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, eating ice cream by the spoonful right out the container when Marco comes into the room. The only lights on are those of the appliances, including that of the open freezer, and Marco’s eyes are so, so dark as he leans in with a smirk.

"Sneaking some ice cream?"

Then Jean’d smirk back and offer Marco a bite from the spoon; and Marco would lean in, closing his eyes as his lips wrapped around the cool metal, throat bobbing as he swallowed—

The doorbell rings, and Jean’s too fucking frustrated to deal with this bullshit; probably his half-sister, forgetting something stupid like her sunglasses or wallet or some shit. Vibrator still on, pulsing gently inside him like a drowsy bumblebee, he pulls his shorts back on and heads downstairs, cursing the whole way. Every step shifts the little device inside his body, and it only adds to his ire as he stops at the foot of the stairs. Yanking the door open with a spat “what” Jean suddenly realizes two very, very important things.

One; Marco had arrived early.

Two; the vibrator had found his prostate.

"Sh—hit," Jean grunts brokenly as all of the blood in his body zeroes in on his semi-hard dick, leaving absolutely none in his brain to let him decide what’s the best protocol to entertaining attractive guests by himself. On one hand it’s fantastic, better then he’d ever thought it would be; on the other hand, he is pretty damn sure that it’s rude to come in his pants right in front of dear sweet Marco.

"Sorry, am I too early?"

"Y-yeah, you’re a little early." Jean’s voice is gravelly and strained as he tries to at least stand up straight; but that just makes everything worse, and by that he means better as the little bullet with a cord (to prevent this kind of situations but Jean was too impatient to pull it out) hums into that sweet cluster of nerves. God, he’s never been so hard in his life but he absolutely has to get out of here. "C-come on in, no sense in you wait— hah, waiting in the car or some shit."

Jean leans against the door and crosses his arms; both because his legs are starting to give out and because he doesn’t trust his hands anywhere but pinned to his upper body. Marco steps inside, no ice cream this time, and fixes Jean with a very intensely concerned stare.

"Are you all right, Jean? You don’t look—"

"I’m fuh— fuck— fine," he eventually manages, though it’s taking everything in him to not rut against the nearest object just to finish. Marco doesn’t look convinced, and instead places the back of his hand against Jean’s forehead.

Teeth sink into his tongue at the electric feel of of the contact, and Jean’s light brown eyes snap shut before they can roll back in his head. He explicitly remembers the last time they touched; at the mall, Hitch had grabbed Marco’s hand so “no one gets lost~!” and in turn Marco had offered the gesture to Jean. He’d rejected, of course, but he still remembers the ghost of a touch across his hand before he yanked away. And, classic Jean, he’d regretted refusing the gesture for days afterwards; Marco’s embarrassed recoil aside.

He is the thirstiest kind of trash in the entire state of New York and he wants so badly to just get out of here, but his disobedient body is leaning into Marco’s touch. He wonders, wishes that Marco would maybe catch on, reach his hand down the front of Jean’s shorts and help him out with his little - no, not little, huge - problem. But Jean is unfortunately an awkward dorky high school boy with a goddamn sex toy singing a siren song inside his ass and he needs to  _es-cah-pey_.

"Why don’t we get you something to drink," and Marco tries to fit an arm around Jean’s back and under his shoulders to help him along; Captain Fucking Canana, god damn everything. The blond teenage whines and tries to dig his heels into the carpet. His fingernails dig into his ribcage; mind over matter, that’s supposed to work, right? He can just will his way out of this situation despite the fact that he’s alone with Marco Bodt and this should be - this is everything he ever wanted.

But Marco’s idea of helping doesn’t involve a smirk, teeth against the side of Jean’s neck and a warm hand shoved down the front of his boxers.

"No, no Marco— I just— please, Marco," oh god that is his sex voice, a squeaky-ass little moan and Jean wants to die, "let me go I need to—"

He’s panting now; Marco’s arm still around him and Jean makes the last fatal mistake of inhaling right next to the college student’s chest. A faint cocktail of sweat and Old Spice, still warm from the summer sun and Jean swears it forms a little cartoon beckoning hand of scent. It carries him, takes him places, and he feels the floor shift under his feet then he is gone.

Legs buckle but of course, of course Marco catches him; holds him close to his broad chest and makes some sound of alarm. Not that it does any good, though. Jean groans, long and deep, as he creams his boxers like a fucking fourteen year old, vibrator still thrumming deep in his body and milking him dry. His fingers clench in the fabric of Marco’s shirt, dragging his nails down his skin through the soft cotton fabric as Jean gasps in the aftermath.

It’s such a disorienting mix of _so fucking **good**  oh my god_ and  _so fucking **bad**  oh my god_ that Jean just kind of slumps against Marco until he can think again. The vibrator helps - he’s hypersensitive to it now and it’s a little too close to the good side of painful. But his hands still kind of shake as he pulls away, cheeks crimson and—

Apparently matching Marco’s, who is staring over the top of Jean’s head with the kind of determined, terrified expression that suggests he knows exactly what happened. Shit. The mayor himself of Coolsville, who looks uncannily in his mind’s eye to Spike Spiegel, kicks Jean in the face as he officially banned from the town forever.

"… So, do you still want me to… uh… get you that water?"

"Yes," Jean jumps at the conversation topic; it could be about Kevin Bacon’s acting career or the most recent tax hike, or even how good Jean’s sister is in bed. So long as it has absolutely nothing to do with Jean’s dick, which is even now starting to wake up again, he is good. "Could you. Get that for me and then just. Wait on the couch for a second, I need to go…"

Anything but his dick, mention anything but his dick, don’t even think about—

"… catch a vibrator."

Marco looks like he wants to cry. Jean is already there. Goddamn it, his brain had  _one_  fucking job to do!

"Because, you know." And Jean takes a couple steps backwards, his smile forced and bordering on hysteria. It’s like a disease, a compulsion; he falls to his knees and uses his hands to just dig a little deeper. "It’s still running."

“ _Water I’ll go get you some water_ ,” and Marco nearly evaporates in his haste to get out of the situation; Jean sits down hard on the stairs, which unfortunately just jams the vibrator even deeper and oh sweet merciful Avengers jokes he is going to climax again if he doesn’t get moving. So he hauls himself upstairs and locks himself in his room, already shoving his soiled shorts down.

Knees on the mattress, the blond forces himself to relax and fights down a moan as he pulls the wretched little beast out. He knows he should probably clean the device off, but Jean just turns it off, wraps it in yet another sock and shoves it into the wasteland under his bed. Replaces his boxers and his shorts - maybe Marco won’t notice that the wet stain went through two layers of clothing, maybe he’ll think it’s cool - Jean finally emerges back downstairs.

Marco is sitting, stiff-backed, on the sofa. Big, dark brown eyes are wide as he stares at a blank television screen, sweating as much as the glass of ice water sitting on the coaster before him on the coffee table. Jean wishes he didn’t still find the sight somewhat attractive, even if raw fear isn’t a thing he especially likes in his partners.

Jean sits conspicuously far from Marco, even though it makes him lean into the black-haired man’s lap to retrieve his ice water. A few sips in, he notices Marco turns to look at him from the corner of his eye. The guy’s face is one Jean would expect on someone who’d just been asked to put down a puppy.

"As your senior," Jean hears through a vague haze of post-orgasm bliss and staunch denial, "I feel… an obligation to make sure that you’re employing safe sexual practices."

Jean’s hand doesn’t convulse enough to shatter the glass in his hand; half because it’s actually plastic and half because he’s a weak suburban punk. Instead he holds it and stares into its fluid depths. Maybe, if he tilts his head back just so, he can drown in it. Turkeys can drown in the rain. According to the internet, which everyone knows is always a flawless vault of perfectly accurate information.

"It’s generally, um, not a good practice to, uh… place foreign objects in there without an easy method of removal… So please, for future reference, try to… not?"

Jean opts for suffocation instead, grabs the nearest throw pillow and buries his face in it. Breathes in deeply of lint and dust and other fabric-y scents. Coughs. And only after he’s successfully inhaled so much cough dandruff that his voice is a wheeze, Jean manages to croak out a response.

"Do me a favor, Marco. Never speak. Ever again."

His companion doesn't, and once Jean's filled his lungs with dust he turns on the PlayStation and tosses Marco the extra controller, and they proceed to play the most uncomfortable rounds of SoulCalibur V experienced by mankind until Hitch comes home and takes Jean's place. And once he goes upstairs, he doesn't go back down for dinner.


	2. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it looks like i'm updating this the day it was published, but ding dong u are wrong TECHNICALLY i wrote this back in july so my update schedule is actually terrible unless the fic is Render in which case Holy Shit
> 
> for betsy and cory/emlyn

He's not hiding, no matter what his mother says. And he's definitely not lurking, no matter what Hitch says. He's studying. Or he was.

At the moment, Jean just happens to be studying the movement of Marco's back muscles under his soaking wet shirt through the window as he washes his hands at the kitchen sink for a good three minutes. Hitch has a few college friends over - a short frigid blonde with icy eyes and a striking nose, a short chocolate-skinned woman with inky freckles to rival Marco, and Captain Canada himself. Jean had been called out of hiding under threat of losing video game privileges but he's still stalling.

His family isn't especially religious, but if there is a God, then Jean is damn sure He took an extra long time to craft Marco.

They're playing something Hitch is calling Whirlpool, because it's a wetter version of Twister played under a sprinkler and she is terrible at naming things. Hitch is currently reaching frantically over Marco's wet back, her painted toes digging into the tarp as she stretches for a colored circle. The other blonde is calling out new goals as she sips lemonade, and Not-Marco is giggling as Hitch flails.  it looks like fun, honestly, but it also is practically giving him a stiffy just by watching, so he wouldn't participate in a million years.

As he watches, Hitch gives up and flops on Marco's back entirely, laughing hysterically as her friend with an unknown amount of benefits struggles to not crush the third member of their game. Sensing danger, the freckled woman scoots away with a yelp and Marco collapses.

"Well, go on," and Jean jumps at his father's voice behind him. Mr. Kirstein is tall in a graceless, giraffe-sort of way with a long face that only adds to his stretched-too-thin appearance, and there's a plate of raw meat in his hands that looks ready for the grill.

"What?"

"Grab those buns."

"I--" Jean's gaze whips back out to the window so fast his neck hurts, "-- _what_?!" He hadn't been staring at Marco's ass this time, and he knows his parents at least have reason to suspect his orientation, but to have his dad encouraging him? A hot blush flashes across his face and he shakes his head. Impossible.

"The buns. For the hamburgers. Right," and his dad gestures with a jerk of his chin to a package of rolls on the counter next to Jean's elbow, "there."

"Oh. Y-yeah, okay," and he grabs the bread buns by the neck of the package, swinging them beside his thigh as he pushes the screen door open, almost forgetting to not close it on his dad's nose. He gets a dubious look for his trouble, and Jean tries to imagine himself as small and invisible as possible.

But when he glances sideways and sees Hitch straddling Marco, her spine arched in such a way that she posed like a pin-up model in her black crop-top tee and bikini briefs, his thin temper frays dangerously. He wonders, and doesn't want to but does anyway, how many times Hitch has wrapped her legs around Marco's narrow, gorgeous waist. Something like bile rises up in the back of his throat.

"Are you sure you don't want to get a little _wet_ with me, Annie?" Hitch runs her hands down her thighs sensually, fluttering her eyelashes-- Jean jerks his gaze away and drops the bag of bread on the little picnic table that's just out of the sprinkler's range. _There_ , he tries to thought-beam across to his mother at the grill, _I have left my room. Are you happy now?_

But a voice, low and calm and female, stops him dead.

"Hey, Jean. Do you have your phone on you?" Abby, or _whatever_ her name is, nods from her position in the chair, fluorescently pale in a way that makes Jean feel a bit better about himself.

He glances past the blond to his sister, who's standing safely on the grass as Marco picks himself up, dripping wet and pinked with sunburn. "Uh, no, Mom made me change into swim trunks," and he swishes his hands across the noisy fabric.

"Is that so."

Jean's eyes narrow instinctively, and he's so focused on the enigmatic new girl that he's totally caught off guard when someone soaking wet hip-checks him so hard he stumbles in the slick grass.

"Hitch!"

His voice breaks awkwardly into a shrill screech as he hits the soft ground, rolling onto his backside. The wet grass is a refreshing chill, true, and he was _eventually_ planning on splashing himself with cold water, but not like _this_. The looming arc of the sprinkler is dousing the other side of the lawn, and Hitch throws her arm over the third girl's rich brown shoulders and cackles gleefully.

"Oh come on, I even made sure I wouldn't get your phone wet. Don't be such a _baby_."

"Fuck you!"

"Jean," comes the immediate, whip-crack rebuttal from his mother, safe on the dry but bakingly hot concrete porch. It was still worth it just to fling the insult at his half-sister.

He senses someone at his side before he sees them - then Marco's leaning over him, offering a hand and a smile. Little drops of water are making constellations of the freckles on his forearms, and Jean forgets his ever-present ego for just long enough to accept the warm hand and be pulled to his feet.

Maybe if Marco would meet his eyes, they could have a moment. Maybe if they weren't surrounded by a flock of girls like a murder of crows, hopping around on the edges of Jean's awareness with shrill voices and flighty movements. Maybe if Jean hadn't creamed himself in front of their guest two weeks ago.

Maybe if they weren't three and three-quarter years apart in age.

And also, maybe, if the sprinkler didn't loop back around and paint a stripe of absolutely frigid water down Jean's back, and if he didn't leap forward and cannon into Marco's damp, solid chest. But he did all those things in quick succession and with absolutely no dignity.

 

* * *

 

It's probably about one in the morning when Jean wakes up, absolutely parched with thirst. And not just the sexual thirst, either, but the actual need for water. But instead of walking to the bathroom to drink out of the sink, from the tap that made everything taste very faintly of sulfur and water-softening salt, he creeps down the stairs to the kitchen.

He can just barely make out the shape of Marco curled up on the couch. The college sophomore had ended up leaving his change of clothes at home, and since it was already nearly dark by the time he'd noticed, Hitch and her mom had not only convinced Marco to borrow some of Jean's dad's clothes, but to spend the night and just drive home in the morning. It was the weekend anyway, and he'd confessed to not having work the next morning, but he'd only accepted when he was allowed to take the couch and not kick anyone out of their beds.

Jean gets a glass of water in the darkness, basking in the faint glow of the lights on the appliances. The cold water wakes him up, but he knew that he wasn't going to get back to sleep anyway.

So he upends the cup in the sink and creeps back to the living room, kneeling beside the arm of the couch where Marco's head is pillowed. It's late enough that everything feels like a good idea, so he plows on ahead with the latest in what he knows is a long, long string of terrible life decisions.

"Hey. Marco?" His voice is a light, airy whisper - he clears his throat and tries to pitch it a little deeper. "Marco."

The man on the couch stirs.

"... Mnn, Jean?"

Fuck, he was really deep in sleep. Jean feels a hot flush of shame, his nerve failing him, and he starts to melt backwards into the darkness. But Marco's sitting up on his elbow, turning his head Jean's way in the dark.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replies quickly, drawn back to the arm of the couch like a magnet. "I'm fine. I just wanted... I wanted to ask you something, okay?"

Marco takes in a short little breath, and Jean can actually feel the warmth of it feathering out on his cheeks as he leans in closer, kneeling on the carpet and resting his forearms on the furniture.

"Okay."

"Do you," and it hurts, it burns to ask but he needs to know. "Do you love my sister?"

"Hitch?"

Jean nods, then realizes Marco probably can't see as well as he can in the dark, and adds a "yeah" under his breath.

"Of course I do. Why do you ask?"

For a sick, free-falling moment, Jean can't answer. It feels like something in his chest has been-- crushed, like an insect ground into the pavement. He hadn't really thought he had a shot with Marco, but to lose out to his half-sister of all people...

"I just..." and he's not lying, for all his bitterness and all their bickering. Honesty trickles out of his breaking heart, dripping onto the carpet as he addresses his words to the floor. "She's a really-- difficult person, sometimes, and she's been through some shit, so I just wanted-- I hope you're not dating her out of pity, is all. Sorry. It's none of my business."

"Jean," Marco breathes in the gloom, and the way he says his name, so sweetly and with the resonance that can only have come from familiarity with the French tongue; it all just twists in the pit of Jean's stomach, in the middle of his spine. He can feel tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, and only girls and little kids cry but he's just a stupid cocksucking, hopeless and helpless--

"Jean," and he has the nerve to laugh, like he didn't just crumple Jean's dreams like paper, "I'm not dating your sister."

"... You're--"

Jean's fingers dig into the upholstery and he stares, wide-eyed, at nothing. "You're," he starts again, and makes a little more progress this time, "you're not?"

He tilts his chin up, forgetting about the little bead of wetness in the corner of his eye that chose that moment to slide down his face. Marco's still so, so close and his emotions are all over the place, spiraling out of control to the slowly increasing beat of his heart.

"No, she's not... not really my type?" He laughs again, and shifts in the dark. "I'm more into-- well, guys, I guess. Are you--"

Jean sniffs, then realizes that Marco's leaning in and has probably figured out that he just had a tiny mental breakdown at one in the morning, so his sleep-deprived brain decides the only thing to do is to suddenly reach out and grab Marco by his perfect, beautiful face.

He nearly pokes him in the eye, but before either of them can really react - or in Jean's case, think - he yanks them together for a sloppy, frantic, kiss. His experience is limited, his passion is not, and frankly for the first second it's an absolute _disaster_. Marco pulls away, Jean's hand falls from his face and he's teetering on the brink again before Marco grabs him by the wrist and kisses him again. Then it's _amazing_.

Maybe he didn't actually go downstairs to drink after all, and this is all just a dream. But it's an amazing dream, and he can just barely taste the thickness of sleep on Marco's lips as they part, letting Jean deeper the kiss. He clambers around the arm of the couch between kisses, the smack of their lips so loud in the heavy silence of night, aware of his every movement and mistake and flaw in the moments that they're not touching. But eventually, the stars and their hips align, and Jean ends up in Marco's lap with his tongue halfway down Marco's throat and it's such a miracle. It can't be real. It can't be happening.

Warm hands slide up his back, then back down again - restless and greedy, Marco explores the unfilled edges of Jean's body just as he maps the inside of his mouth. Jean's skin burns like the summer sun is lurking under his skin and he almost expects to glow. His knees slide into the back of the couch on each side of Marco's hips, bringing them inexorably closer - then Marco sucks Jean's lower lip into his mouth, caressing it gently with his tongue, and Jean practically sees stars. He wants Marco inside him, under his clothes and his skin; he wants them tangled around each other until they're glued together with sweat and come; he wants and he wonders if he needs when he pulls away to gasp for air.

And the answer is yes, yes he needs this, when Marco starts to pepper kisses along Jean's jawline, where the skin is still soft in places. He needs this, he needs Marco, and he dares to grind his hips down to prove just how much he wants and needs and burns. Warm, large hand snap to his hips, adjust his rhythm and angle - then Marco rolls up to meet him and Jean has to bite his tongue to not wail with how good it feels.  He tries to do it again, but Marco just rumbles into the side of his neck and clamps Jean against his lap, holding him still.  It's maddening, worse when Marco opens his mouth against the pulsing vein along Jean's neck like he's begging to bite, but he won't and Jean can feel him still holding back just a little bit.  Just a nudge.  Jean wriggles again, chases Marco's mouth for another kiss and tries his best to fuck the older man's mouth with his tongue.  He's drooling and he's probably terrible, but it's still hot and wet and slick and so good for him.  Thumbs dig into his hipbones, and Jean gets enough traction to really grind down again, the hot press of their cocks rubbing against each other and he can taste Marco's gasp.  He can feel the air sucked out of his mouth into Marco's, and he goes to do it again.  But the brunet goes rigid underneath him, then as quick as breathing Jean's flipped onto his back, laid out on the sofa, with Marco pressing his hips just below Jean's and his hand over Jean's mouth.

In his lust-driven haze, it takes Jean a second to register the faint sounds in the hallway, and then he too goes still and cold with fear. If his parents find them, then-- this, all of it, could be over.  Not just this near-tryst, but Marco's welcome in the Kirstein household at all. It doesn't bear thinking about.

But Marco's still here, still so firm and so close and his abs are flush against Jean's dick for crying out loud. It's not fair.

Because by the time the sounds fade into peaceful silence again, Jean can feel the shift in the atmosphere. He tries to lean up and catch Marco in one last kiss, but the man just sits up and curls up into himself.

"Go to bed, Jean."

Jean's never heard him this cold before, and it's like a slap across the face. Actually, he'd prefer the slap. He knows how to counter a physical blow. But he gets up, feeling fragile, and limps back upstairs.


End file.
